


This is Home

by angededesespoir



Series: Mc76 Week [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Phantom Limbs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9387143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angededesespoir/pseuds/angededesespoir
Summary: It's not the same, but it's enough.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _For Day 5- Touch/Comfort._  
>     
>  _Finally got around to writing this. My brain’s really kicking my butt lately. :P Anyway, I unfortunately know very little about phantom limbs and amputations in general, so keep that in mind while you read a certain portion of this._
> 
>  
> 
> _(Can also be read of[Tumblr](http://angededesespoir.tumblr.com/post/156072553045/this-is-home).)_

McCree slides the card in the slot, fingers fumbling to punch in the code. After all this time he’s still not used to such small buttons.

After a moment the door fortunately unlocks and he holds it open for the other man to enter.

Soldier wavers for a brief moment, then strides in, McCree following behind him. The sound of the door clicking shut echos through the room.

“Well, darlin’, here it is. Welcome to my humble abode.”

He watches the man turn, taking in his surroundings. “You keep it just as simple as you did back then.” 

There’s nostalgia, with a hint of sadness to his voice, and it reminds McCree of earlier days- when Jack curled against him in his bed, head on Jesse’s chest, looking at a blank wall. He remembers the man suggesting he put something up- pictures, posters, trinkets- anything. He offered to help him find things. Anything to make Jesse feel more at home.

He still remembers Jack’s own room. Pictures of their teammates, their family, littered practically every inch, covering even medals and framed awards. On his dresser was an image that seemed out of place- a rundown farm, corn fields. There was a young boy there, smiling shyly.

The picture was worn at the edges, faded, but the glass that protected it was pristine.

 

McCree only has one picture on his bureau. One from about 14 years ago. He’s wedged between Ana, Gabriel, and Jack, all of them smiling brightly (in their own fashions) for the camera. 

This was his own piece of home. One of the few physical possessions he took with him when he left.

He watches Jack as he walks up to it. McCree can’t see his face behind the mask, but he notes the way the man hesitates, slowly brings his hand out to trace the faces lovingly.

He lets him have his moment as he removes his boots, the coolness of the metal floor chilling him through his socks. Every part of him aches, and he winces, hisses a bit, as he undoes his prosthetic.

Soldier turns towards him at the pained sound. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just the regular aches and pains, you know?” He massages the flesh, smiling wryly. “It never gets better does it?”

“No. It doesn’t.” McCree can hear him, can feel him approach, hand reaching out to hover over his arm. “Can I-”

He nods. “Why don’t we make ourselves a li'l more comfy first. Take off your boots,” he says, gesturing with his head as he cradles his arm, making his way to the bed. 

He climbs in and listens to the sound of the shoes being shed off, soles making contact with the floor. He pats an empty spot near him. “Come on.” 

Jack obeys, moving forward on stiff legs and climbing up onto the bed. McCree feels the way the mattress gives and shifts under the weight of the man’s movement. He spreads his legs, lets the soldier settle between them. (Still too rigid, too on guard for his liking. It reminds him of when they first started, and it reminds him of the process of them falling apart. Jack’s nerves wrecking havoc for different reasons.)

He closes his eyes as the hand makes contact with the scarred flesh. He holds back a groan. The area hurts. After all this time, the nerves and his brain still mess with him. It still feels like it’s there. Like he can still reach out, can still use his left hand to cup Jack’s cheek and tenderly stroke the skin in comfort.

But he hasn’t been able to do that in years. His right hand tenses, curls reflexively into a fist as Jack tries to soothe the nerves of his other arm.

“McCree.” It’s spoken so softly, he barely hears. He opens his eyes, lazily blinks.

“You can still call me Jesse, you know.”

The hands still for a moment, and then pick up their rhythmic squeezing. “I’m sorry.”

He’s heard it before. Same words, similar tone, countless nights.

He reaches out, rubs Jack’s hand lightly. “It’s fine. It’s okay, Jack. There ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.”

Jack doesn’t say anything, just looks down, continues kneading at the flesh, and McCree lets him. But he knows the man too well from the time they spent together. He knows the man’s doubt, his guilt, his fear. He wants to absolve him, to ease his worried mind. He wants to tell him that it wasn’t all his fault, that they still have a chance if Jack is willing to take the risk again.

Before he can stop himself, he’s reaching out, caressing the side of the man’s mask. “Jack.” The man stills.

McCree shifts his hand, begins unlatching one of the catches. 

He pauses, gives time for the man to object. Instead, he sees Jack move his own hand to the other side. He notices the slight tremble in the fingers as Jack undoes some of the latches. There’s a slight curve to the corner of McCree’s lips as he finishes the ones on his side and helps remove the mask.

He takes in the sight- the wrinkles, the scars, the brilliant blue eyes that now carry a slight haze. He truly has changed so much, but he’s still his Jack, of that, McCree’s sure.

He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the man’s forehead. “It’s okay.” He strokes Jack’s cheek lovingly, with the same tenderness he used countless times back then. (God, how he’s missed this.)

Jack’s hand curves around his as the man averts his eyes. “It’s my fault. I should have-” 

“Shhh. You can’t change the past, darlin’, and it ain’t all on you.” 

“But it is.” Jack’s pulling the hand from his face. “You don’t know, Jesse. You don’t know.”

His chest aches. It’s painful listening to the words dripping despair and regret, and he finds himself torn, half of him wanting to comfort Jack, the other half wanting to question him. Because damn if they all didn’t deserve answers. And because he wanted to help him, but, just like back then, he doesn’t know how. 

He decides against asking, at least for now, when he notices the tears welling in Soldier’s eyes. He pulls the man forward, peppering his face with a succession of quick, sloppy kisses. Then he suddenly stops his bombardment, moves his head back to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t need to. I already know you’re a good man, Jack.”

And just like that, the floodgates open, the dam breaks. 

He presses Jack to his chest, lets him bury his head as the tears start flowing, silent sobs running through him.

He remembers the nights he used to do this, allowing him to let go of all his pent-up emotion, drop the façade. 

He holds him close now, like he did then, rubbing his back soothingly and whispering a stream of comfort and reassurance, Spanish and English blurring together, becoming one.

McCree only stops when Jack falls silent, body still against him. He holds him close, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s alright, hon. I got ya. I’m not going no where.”

The only response he gets is a hand weakly grasping at his serape, fingers curling into the fabric for a few seconds before relaxing, hand dropping back down.

He’s stroking the man’s back again, this time humming a lullaby he vaguely remembers his mother singing to him as a little kid. Most of the words have faded from his memory by now, but he still remembers the tune.

He keeps humming songs, providing light touches, until he notices Jack has fallen asleep. 

A small smile forms on McCree’s face as he presses another kiss to Jack’s head. His arm wraps around the man’s back as he closes his eyes, relaxes.

This is a start, at least. Another beginning. Another chance at having a home.

He lets himself surrender to a dream.

**Author's Note:**

> I.....am not familiar with Spanish Lullabies, so I went with [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=os4AdOvtHRA) that I found.


End file.
